


The Interview

by RangerGiselle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood Magic, Demonic Possession, Desire Demons (Dragon Age), F/M, Gen, Insanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 06:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RangerGiselle/pseuds/RangerGiselle
Summary: Written in response to the fanfic writing contest from the Dragon Age Universe group on Facebook.  This time, the prompt was to tell the *true* fate of Orsino from Dragon Age 2, not Varric's version from "The Tale of the Champion".I chose to go with an interview with a mage who knew him.





	The Interview

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS: (This whole piece is kind of a trigger warning, lol). Abusive relationships, attempted rape, murder, necromancy, sexualization of a corpse, suicide, miscarriage...you name it, it's probably in there. And although I was mightily creeped out writing this, I'm not sorry.

The Interview

 

Introduction:

In an old farmhouse outside of Kirkwall, a man paced by the window.  One hand was wrapped around the handle of a tea cup.  He had come here, had been told to meet for a very important interview.

“Orisino?” he asked, incredulous.  “You came all the way here to ask me about a man who’s been dead for a year already?  I thought this interview was going to be about something interesting.  Your man told me you wanted to know about my research.”

The man sat down at the rectangular table, setting the dainty china cup, steaming with an aromatic tea, down into the saucer with a delicate clink.  He looked up, his grey eyes flashing in the dim light from the window, and his shoulders settled back down into relaxation.

He steepled his fingers before continuing, “I suppose we all have our curiosities.  Very well, I will tell you of the First Enchanter.  His story, like so many others, is a tale about what makes us human, and what makes us  _ more. _  You’ll want to take notes, no doubt.”

 

The Tale of Orsino, Chapter One: How We Met

A young apprentice hurried off to his lesson, attempting to juggle his staff and other belongings.  He was dressed in the traditional robes of the Starkhaven Circle of Magi, as were the other young men and women milling about.  In his haste, he tripped, and his grip on the items loosened. Parchment went flying, and the large book he’d been carrying dropped heavily on his toe.

He cursed, dropping to pick up his things.  The templar stationed nearby took the opportunity to come over, and promptly kicked him in the ribs.  “Hurry it up, mage.”

“You don’t have to be mean, Traevor, he’s still new,” a feminine voice sounded.  He looked up and saw her.  She was a mage, like him, a little older, but she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.  “Here, let me help you,” she said, and it was a second before her words registered, and he went back to picking up his supplies.

“Th-thank you,” the apprentice stuttered.

“You’re the late bloomer, right?  Just got your magic?  It will be alright, you get used to it here after a while.  I’m Ivy,” she said.  She leaned in to whisper, “But you don’t want to give them reason to be cross with you.”

The apprentice nodded, and watched her walk away, knowing that he had just met the girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

 

In the Farmhouse:

“Why are you looking at me like that?  I  _ know _ Orsino wasn’t in that part of the story yet, I’m getting to it.  You said you wanted the whole tale, didn’t you?  Well, this is how it began.  This is how it  _ all _ began…with  _ her. _ ”

 

The Tale of Orsino, Chapter Two: Young Love

The apprentice and the girl, Ivy, became fast friends, and after a time, they became lovers, sneaking off into secret alcoves for a chance to be alone.  He had never felt anything like this before, and was certain that rush of emotions he felt when he was near her was love.  He would do anything for her.

He studied hard, hoping that once they both passed their Harrowing, they’d be given missions together and could travel outside the Circle.  Ivy was older, so hers would be first, and it was nearing time for her test.  She was a talented mage, without question, and the apprentice had no worries that she would fail.

The night before her Harrowing, he went to see her, but she wasn’t in her room.  He looked up and down the hallways, asking after her, but no one had seen which way she went.  He was about to give up when he heard hushed voices coming from the darkened library.  He heard her voice cry out in pain.  The apprentice rushed into the library, and saw his love being pushed down over a table, that horrible templar Traevor grasping at the hem of her robe.

“You be nice to me, girl, like you used to.  I’m the one standing watch over you tomorrow, and you want to keep me happy.”

The apprentice saw red and charged the man he hated more than anyone.  He knew better than to try to use magic - the templar would smite him in a heartbeat - instead balling up his fist to throw a punch.  The templar had been so intent on what he was doing that he hadn’t seen the apprentice approach, and despite the difference in their size, the blow to his eye made his head snap backwards, confused.

“What the-?   _ You! _ ” the templar growled rubbing his face where he’d been hit.  “Here to protect your little cunt?  She’s been mine since before you came here, and she likes it that way.”

The apprentice glanced at his love, unshed tears in her beautiful eyes, her face frightened, and he knew there was no way she’d been a willing participant in this.  Not this time, at least.  “I’ll turn you in,” he swore.  “The Knight-Commander will hear of how you-” his words cut off as the templar grabbed him around the neck.

“You’re not going to say anything, you little shit.  You won’t be able to once I’m done with you,” he snarled.  Looking over at the girl, the templar pointed at her.  “You, wait there.  If I have to find you when I’m done here, you’ll be sorry.”

The apprentice gasped for air with the one hand removed from his neck, and struggled anew.  He needed to put some distance between himself and the templar; he had no choice but to draw on his magic.  He summoned his mental will, and focused it.   _ Mind Blast _ , he thought, throw him away from me.  He released the spell, but of course, the templar had been prepared for such a thing, and instead of the the templar going flying...the apprentice’s back arched in pain.

“You’re not very bright, even for a mage.”  The templar dropped him, knowing that the apprentice would be unable to move in his current state.  

The apprentice looked up at Traevor, with his clasped hands raised above his head.  But, the templar never lowered them; the blow never came.  Glowing red tendrils of magic wrapped around his joined arms, and more hit him like a wave, his body moving with the impact.  The templar collapsed, and the apprentice now saw Ivy standing there, blood dripping from a cut on her outstretched hand, a small knife in the other.

_ Blood magic.   _ His head was full of everything he’d learned, that blood magic was evil, that it opened the door for demonic possession, that any blood mage must die.  And yet, here was the woman he loved, the woman he would have gladly died for, and she had used it to save him without hesitation.  She stared back at him, horror and guilt mixing in her gaze.  It was another minute before the apprentice felt the effects of the smiting wearing off.   _ I guess that means the templar still lives, if his ability persisted after he fell. _

He walked over to the templar and a quick glance was enough to tell him that he was still breathing, just unconscious.  

“What are we going to do?” Ivy whispered furtively, looking toward the doorway.  “They’ll find us any minute, and I’ll be hauled off for execution.”  

_ Ivy, his beloved...dead?  No, I won’t allow it. _  He had an idea.  He grabbed her wrist and held her wounded palm upright.  He allowed the glowing light of healing magic to close the injury, and afterwards, he took the small knife from her.

Realizing what he meant to do, her eyes widened.  “No,” she said, reaching for the knife, but the apprentice shook his head, backing away from her, and sliced open is own palm.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he promised her.  “I’ll take the blame for this.  I love you, Ivy,” he said, meeting her eyes, a teardrop he hadn’t known was forming finding its way down his cheek as the templars burst into the room.  Seeing what had happened, they grabbed him by the arms and knocked the knife out of his hand.

“Quentin!” she cried as they dragged him away. “No!”

 

In the Farmhouse:

“I escaped my captors, of course,” the man clarified, “and killed the templars who guarded me.  My phylactery had been in their possession, and I took great pleasure in destroying it when I found it.  I know what you’re thinking: that this is _my_ tale and it doesn’t sound like it’s about Orsino at all.  But his story and mine are intertwined, you see.  To tell one is to tell the other.  

“My friendship with Orsino started after they transferred Ivy to the Gallows.  I wasn’t about to leave her in that pit, especially not after what she had done for me, but I needed help in getting her out.  That’s where Orsino came in…

 

The Tale of Orsino, Chapter Three: Vows

Quentin was squatting in Lowtown.  It far from glamorous, and it was hard to blend in, as this was before the Blight happened and hundreds of refugees showed up on the Kirkwall docks.  But, the lowlifes that made Darktown their home all knew each other too well, and he’d stand out like a sore thumb in Hightown.  At least Lowtown was near the docks, and he went every day to look out over the churning water and see the Gallows, where he knew Ivy rested her head at night.  The thought that she was so close, and yet so far, ate at him.

Over a few months, he’d found others like him, free mages.  Some of them knew the most fascinating kinds of magic, things that weren’t taught in Circles.  He enjoyed his time with them, practicing new skills.  Ivy had taught him that “forbidden” magics weren’t necessarily evil, and the training helped take his mind off missing her while he crafted a plan.

Through this group, he was able to gain a contact inside the Gallows, a mage named Orsino, who passed along messages to his love.  Reading the correspondence from his new friend, knowing Ivy had passed her Harrowing and was okay helped, but he wouldn’t be able to truly relax until he saw her for himself and held her in his arms again.

Over time, he gained the trust of the mage underground and he learned more about their workings, including how they were able to sneak things in and out of the Gallows without being noticed.  A series of subterranean passageways, more natural caves and rough tunnels than polished corridors, ran underneath the bay between Darktown and the Gallows.  But, now that he knew of their existence, he _ had _ to get in to see her.

He had sent a message about a week before to Orsino, planning the meeting, and as he stood waiting in the tunnel, he couldn’t believe how sweaty his hands were.  The cave was dim, lit only by torchlight, and the sound of dripping water in the distance was all that could be heard, aside from Quentin’s own nervous breath.  At last, he saw light coming from around a turn in the tunnel, and then he saw her, standing next to an elf.

Ivy ran toward him, and he opened his arms to her, gathering her slight form tight to his chest, as though by his embrace alone he could keep them from being separated.  But, he knew such things were not so easily done.  Mages in Circles are kept in check by the knowledge that they would be tracked with their phylacteries.  Sadly, this could not be the night that he took his lover from her torment.  But soon, soon.

“I saw your messages, but part of me was afraid to hope it was really you.  When they took you, I thought you were dead,”  She buried her face against his neck, feeling the same desperation that he did.  “I love you,” she said.  “I never got to say that before, but I do.”

“And I love you too, Ivy, always,” he replied.  Quentin looked to the elf.  “Are you Orsino?” he asked.

He nodded.  “And I’ve heard all about the brave Quentin,” he added with a smile.  “Sometimes ad nauseam.”

Quentin smiled. “Thank you for your help.  I can’t stand the thought of her living in that place, but knowing she has a friend...it helps.”

Ivy looked up at him, and Quentin was overcome with the flood of feelings coming back.  This was real, no dream to distract himself in the middle of the night.  He kissed her, tasting the tears of happiness she shed at their reunion.  His hand smoothed over her hair and held her cheek - that beautiful, special, face that he had missed so much.  “I wish you could come away with me tonight,” he whispered.

“I know.  Orsino and I have been talking.  We think we know where they are keeping the phylacteries.  He’s been here a lot longer than I have, and he knows some of the templars quite well.  He believes he can get in to get my vial.”

“Truly?”  He looked at Orsino again.  “Sir, you would have the undying gratitude of a man in love.”

“You two speak to the romantic in me,” Orsino commented, but his expression was torn.  “I  _ do _ want to help you, but I’m jeopardizing my position by just bringing her here tonight.  If they find out, it will put us all in danger.”

Quentin looked down into the eyes of the woman he loved.  “I’m getting you out of there, one way or another.  If he won’t help, then we’ll do it ourselves.”

Ivy nodded, a small smile of hope turning up the corners of her mouth.

“No, I’ll help,” Orsino said with a sigh.  “Next week, at this time.  The guard that comes on shift never deviates from the same path when he starts his rounds.  I’ll have a couple of minutes before he would see me.  Ivy you head directly here, and let me worry about the phylactery.”

Quentin dug in his pocket until he found what he was looking for.  He had taken small jobs, working on the docks, and making deliveries, and saved up for a couple of weeks to buy the small tricket he now showed to her.  “I know we can’t ever do this right, but I want to you know that I will love you for the rest of my life, Ivy.  Will you marry me?”

She nodded emphatically.  “A thousands times, yes.”  She threw her arms around his neck and they kissed again.  Quentin didn’t want to pull away from her, to send her back to her life in the Circle, but now that they knew it would only be one more week...he could wait for her.  Her hands were delicate, feminine, and he placed the ring on her finger.  

“I wanted you to have one,” he explained, “but don’t forget to take it off when you get back.”

“I love it,” she said, lifting her hand and watching the torchlight glint off the metal surface.

“We have to go,” Orsino said, listening at the tunnel behind them.  “We can’t risk getting caught tonight.”

 

In the Farmhouse:

“If I had known then what would happen, I might have left her to live her life in the Gallows, and continued to see her in secret,” the man said, features contorting into a mask of anguish.  “My Ivy…”

The man stood, taking the cup and saucer with him, and walked to the end table on the other side of the room.  He stacked the cup on top of dozens of others, unwashed, precariously perched one on top of the other.  

“Let me know if you have any questions, yes?  So where was I?  Oh yes, the rescue mission.”

 

The Tale of Orsino Chapter Four: The Price of Freedom

Quentin paced the small space he had occupied in Lowtown again, waiting for the time they were supposed to meet.  He looked over his former home, making sure he had packed everything they were going to need.  He had gone shopping earlier in the day, buying the provisions and supplies they would need for the journey.  He wasn’t sure where they would go, but anywhere sounded good, as long as it was as far away from Starkhaven and Kirkwall as they could get.

He decided that wearing a hole in the floor wasn’t helping him.  He still had a few hours before the promised hour.  He sat with his legs crossed on the bare floor and tried to relax in preparation.  He’d been practicing the spells and abilities he learned from the other mages, and this was as good a time as any to ask for a little advice.

He laid down on his back, allowing sleep to come to him, and when he next opened his eyes, it was not the ceiling of his humble lodgings in Lowtown that he saw, but the green-tinged skies of the Fade.  Sitting up, he wasted no time in casting his eyes around the landscape, seeking her.  Not his beloved Ivy, of course.  No, he awaited his dear friend, and smiled when the spirit approached him.

She was all feminine curves, meant to tempt the unwary.  Thankfully, Quentin was quite aware of what she was and what price she might ask for her assistance.  But they had worked out several arrangements before.  Besides, Ivy’s curves were all he would ever need.   _ His wife, _ he thought with a smile.

“Welcome back dearest,” the spirit said soothingly.  “I feel your eagerness.  Something good must have happened.”  She came close to him, reaching up to stroke his hair.  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“I didn’t come here to chat today, Frenzy,” Quentin replied, turning his head to watch her as she circled his form, her feet floating inches above the ground.

“Oh?  To business then,” she said with a curious tilt of her head.

“I want to know where I can take my love that she and I might be safe,” he explained.  “I thought of Ostwick, but I don’t know if that will be far enough.”

“Are you willing to give me what I want in exchange?” she asked, blinking her eyes a few times.

Quentin took a deep breath.  She was acting far more forward today than usual, with the touches, and now batting her eyes at him.   _ Is she going to ask for something I’m not willing to give? _

“What are you asking for in payment?” he asked, proud that his voice didn’t waver.  He knew it didn’t matter, spirits, or demons as some were want to call them, sensed human emotion,  _ craved _ it.

Her image blurred, and he saw Ivy’s face before him, innocently staring up at him as she had done earlier that day.

“You’re in my head.  You know I don’t like it when you do that,” he protested.

“I thought it would make this easier.  I want to feel your passion, your love for her.  You kissed her today, did you not?  Kiss me as you kissed her, and I will tell you what you want.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.  “Not that.  Make another offer, or we’re done.”

The imitation of Ivy’s face pouted, and faded back to the violet skin of Frenzy.  “It was worth a try,” she said, shrugging.  “Then give me the memory of the last kiss you gave her.  I want it.”

Quentin considered this new offer.  He’d kissed Ivy twice today.   _ What was one memory in trade for the ability to make so many more? _  He nodded.  “I agree to your terms.  Do it.”  He closed his eyes and waited.  He felt her heat, smelled the alluring scent she gave off as she paused in front of him.

“If you’re sure you don’t want my first offer…” she hesitated, but when he didn’t respond, he felt the familiar pull on his temples.  It hurt for a second, followed by a pleasant numbness.  His eyes flew open, and he saw her, head thrown back in enjoyment.  She took a deep breath and faced him again.  

“Ostwick isn’t far enough.  Take her to Rivain.  If you make it safely there together, you can have a long and happy life.”

“Thank you for your wisdom, Frenzy,” he said, relieved to have a straight answer from her.

“Do visit me again,” she cooed, wiggling her fingers at him.   

Quentin sat up in the room, empty now, but for his packed belongings.  He saw that the sun had dipped low in the sky.  It was close enough to the meeting time, he could wait for her in the tunnels, as before.

He made his way through Darktown to the entrance, and glancing about to make sure no one was watching, opened the hatch, dropped his bags down ahead of him, and climbed down the ladder.

The tunnels were confusing, but he remembered the way after a few tries, and he waited in the same open cavern where they had met a week before.  He sat on a mossy boulder, listening to the sound of water trickling.   _ It must have started raining since I came down, _ he concluded, and realized that it would be better for hiding their trail from any pursuers.   _ Not that there should be any, with her phylactery gone, at least not until they realize she’s missing, and we’ll be long gone by then. _  He smiled in the dark to himself.

He didn’t have long to wait, and the sound of running footsteps preceded her.  Ivy’s small frame came from around the corner, and he saw from her worried expression that something had gone wrong.  He rushed to her side, instantly afraid.

“What is it, love?  What happened?” he asked.

“A new Knight-Commander took over the Gallows, and she was going about changing things.  I don’t know if Orsino was able to get my phylactery out in time, but I came here as soon as I could.”

Quentin exhaled, sharply.  “You can’t go back there, not knowing.  We’ll just have to risk it and hope that Orsino can keep his word to us.”

She nodded and quickly dressed in the change of clothing he had brought her.  He turned his back to give her privacy, but couldn’t help but look back at her, and he noticed something different about her body.

“Ivy?” he said, his voice cracking, turning toward her.

She put her hands over her stomach, and looked up at him shyly.  “The healer said I was probably about five months along.”   _ Right before they’d been separated in Starkhaven. _

He took a few steps toward her, and wrapped his arms around her.  “A new life...for our new life together,” he whispered reverently.

He allowed her to finish dressing and brought out the warm cloak he had recently purchased for their trip, fastening the clasp around her neck.  

Ivy picked up her clothing and walked to the far edge of the cave, where a deep hole opened up into another, darker cavern below.  She dropped the robes she had worn at the Circle down through the hole, leaving them behind forever.

“Let’s go,” she said, smiling, and putting her ring on her finger, the symbol of their unsanctioned vows to one another.  He reached out and took her hand, and they walked out of Kirkwall without so much as being questioned that rainy evening.

 

In the Farmhouse:

“No, I don’t know if Orsino got caught.  I didn’t quite care too much about him at that time, too lost in my own wedded bliss and freedom to notice anything else.  I didn’t know I’d end up right back in Kirkwall, needing his help more than ever,” the man said, sighing.  He stretched, turning his neck from side to side.  “You’re awfully quiet.  Make sure to let me know if you need a break.”

The man’s expression was vague, as though haunted by memories from the past.  He stood up from the chair, returning to the window, the light of late afternoon outlining his form against the glass.  “We never made it to Rivain.  As luck would have it, Orsino  _ wasn’t _ able to get to Ivy’s phylactery, and the templars followed us.”

 

The Tale of Orsino, Chapter Five: Pain

The templars were close, searching in the night for them.  Ivy’s hand trembled in his, and Quentin knew that they had little chance of escaping them on foot as they were.  They were going to have to fight, but at least they had the ability to choose their battlefield.  An old barn lay just up ahead, and Quentin led them toward it.  

He created tracks going into the door, but that would be too obvious of a hiding place, they would easily be found.  Better to lure the templars inside, and bar the doors behind them.  He walked backwards, retracing his footsteps until he reached the harder, compact dirt, and both he and Ivy hid on the far side of the barn, close enough that her proximity would trick the templars into thinking the phylactery was leading them inside.

The voices grew louder as they neared the farm.  Visions of Traevor - the person he hated most - danced in front of his eyes upon hearing their voices, and he felt helpless again, as he had that night when he’d found Ivy in danger.  But, like that night, he wasn’t about to stand by while someone hurt her or their unborn child.  He’d sooner die.

He watched from the shadows, stepping away from Ivy where she hid behind the locked door.  They didn’t have  _ his _ phylactery; they’d have no idea he was there until he started casting.  He might be able to sneak up on them.  He stayed where he was, perfectly still in the night, plotting how he would kill them.  He knew they’d be armored, so the small dagger he carried would be useless.  Magic would give away his presence, so that was to be saved as a last resort.

There were two of them that broke out of the treeline and walked directly toward the barn, following the glowing light of the vial.  How hypocritical that they condemn them all for using blood magic, but have no problem with using a tool created by it themselves.  Fools, blindly following the Chantry’s edicts.   _ But not for much longer _ , he thought as he watched them approach the barn, and both of them went inside.  

He ran to the doors, closing them, and slamming the nearby wooden shaft of a spade through both handles.  The pounding started immediately, beating against the door, but they would never make it out in time.  Aiming his staff, he lobbed a fireball through the open window, knowing it would hit the dry interior with an explosion of fire.  Sure enough, smoke soon started billowing out of the barn, and the panicked voices of the templars turned into screams.  A wicked smile crossed Quentins features as he heard it, picturing Traevor’s face burning in place of theirs.   _ We’ll return once it burns to see if her phylactery is still intact. _

He returned to the place where he had left Ivy, but she was not there; instead, he saw tracks and drag marks leading away into the broken underbrush.   _ No!  Something had taken her? _  He stalked into the brush, not caring about any attracting attention now, hurrying through the darkened forest, and up a steep incline.  Once he reached the top, he saw them and realized:  there had been a third templar.

His rage built, stoking the fires of anger like a bellows, and bellow he did - a fierce cry of fury as he hurtled forward toward the templar.  He was glad he couldn’t see the man’s face, didn’t want to know if he’d ever met the man around Kirkwall.  In his mind, it was Traevor all over again.  Quentin knew he wouldn’t get many chances to get this right, and he decided that he shouldn’t hold back.  He drew his dagger and cut across the palm of his hand.  Flinging the droplets forward, the froze in mid air, suspended as though each hung with tiny strings like so many decorations for Satinalia.

Time resumed, and the droplets shot forward, each creating tiny blades as they went.  The power of blood magic was such that while the templar could smite him, he wouldn’t be able to fully block the spell.  The tiny needles hit the templar’s body, avoiding Ivy’s form draped over his shoulder, and he went down.  Ivy’s body fell limply to the ground.

The templar gasped for air, clutching at his chest, but through the metal breastplate, Quentin could still make out nothing of the man’s features.   _ Good, die an anonymous death, you filth, the shards of my magic drowning you in your own blood from the inside. _

He ran to Ivy.  She wasn’t conscious, and a large bruise beginning on her head told him why.  But his heart stopped when he saw the blood.  Too soon to be the templar’s, and she was covered in it from the waist down.   _ The baby! _  He moved her to her back, and her eyes fluttered.

“Careful love, I’m not sure what’s happening, but you’ve been injured.  I’ll try to heal you,” he said, gathering her head onto his lap, and reaching over her to put his hand over her chest.  The blue glow of healing magic spread, and a scream emitted from her perfect lips.

“Ivy!” he cried, the magic stopping in his distract.  “Please love, tell me where it hurts.  Help me help you.”

“The baby...Quentin, something’s  _ wrong _ ,” she said, the last ending on a sobbing whimper.

He set her head down gently, and moved to the lower portion of her body.  He pulled up her skirts, now soaked in blood, trying to figure out what was wrong, but he knew nothing of childbirth, didn’t know what to do for her.  Should he try to heal her again?  He sent a prayer to the Maker for guidance.   _ Please, let her make it through this.  I can accept it if we’ve lost the child, but Maker, please, not Ivy. _

Without knowing what to do, he pulled out a healing potion.  “Drink, love,” he said, and she gulped the liquid down, only to scream anew, her head thrashing back and forth in her agony.

“Quentin!  It hurts!”

“I know love, but I don’t know what to do, healing isn’t working…” he knew he was crying, but didn’t care.  He would be weak in this moment, had always been weak for her.

An idea came to him.  He walked over to the now silent templar’s body, and removed his helmet.  Underneath, the young face of a boy no older than twenty was revealed, not far from Quentin’s own age.  But, he spared no time for sentimentalities, and instead placed his hand over the corpse’s head.  

“Frenzy, I’ve found you a vessel!  Please, cross over and come to me now, I need you,” he pleaded, allowing his own blood to drip from his wounded hand onto the templar’s flesh.

“Dearest?” the templar asked, the words sounding foreign coming from the throat of another.  Quentin backed up as the demon sat up, looking around in confusion.

“Please!” he begged.  “Help my wife.  Tell me what I can do to save her!”

The templar walked over to where Ivy lay, her face twisted into a grimace of pain.  Frenzy breathed in the night air, seemingly unbothered by his wife’s torment, but examined her just the same.

“I cannot.  She will not make it.”

“What?  No, you have to help me!  I’ll do anything...” he cried, prostrating himself in front of her.

“She cannot be saved...now, but she can be made whole again later,” the voice said, and Quentin felt a sinking feeling in his chest.

“Necromancy?  No, I haven’t been able to get it to work right.  I can’t risk hurting her.”

“I will help you,” Frenzy said, coming to stand behind him, one hand on his shoulder.  He could almost feel the demon’s forked tail curling around him, tempting him.   _ Was he making a mistake? _  He went back to Ivy’s side.  She hadn’t spoken now for several minutes, and she’d grown pale from the blood loss.  

“Ivy?” he said, and was rewarded with a fluttering of half open lids.  He stroked her damp hair.  “I’m here, love.”

“Sor-ry, Quentin” she said, the words catching in her throat.  “New life...for you...alone.”

An anguished cry rose from him as he sobbed.  “No, love, not without you.  I don’t want to live in a world where you aren’t.”  He eyed his dagger.   _ Maybe I should just end it for both of us, find my own eternal rest here, and we can be together again at the Maker’s side. _

Ivy’s breathing became labored, and he could hear her struggling to breathe around the fluid building in her lungs.  He held her hand, once strong, now weak and clammy, the cold metal of her ring resting heavily in his hand.  With one more shuddering breath, she was gone.  Grief overcame him like a swell in the sea, and he was inconsolable.  He wept, beating his fists against the ground in rage, cursing the Maker.  His wailing continued through the night until his own throat was hoarse and his tears had run dry.  His eyes once again fell on the dagger.   _ I can be with her on the other side. _

“Why lose everything when you can still have it all?” Frenzy’s voice said from behind him, blending in with that of the templar.

“You’re still here?” he asked, having expected her to either have returned to the Fade, or left in search of other pleasures.

“Yes, and I want to help you,” she said softly.

“Why?” he wondered.

“Because of your love for her.  You’ve given me a chance to experience something I’ve never felt before.  Your love for her is so great, that you would be willing to end your own just to avoid life without her.  I enjoyed that, and I want more,” she explained.  “Love is pain, and yours is delicious,” she said, the masculine finger of the templar sweeping up tears from his face and raising them to her mouth.

Quentin looked at the blade, and back at his dead wife.  “Can we really be together again?  You’ll help me bring her back?”

“She can be made whole again,” the demon said again.

Quentin took a deep breath.  “Then tell me what to do.”

 

In the Farmhouse:

“I already know what you’re going to say, and you can save it.  Yes, consorting with demons is generally considered to be a bad idea, and dangerous.  They’re mostly right, but demons also know so many things, and I was desperate enough for any shred of hope.

“I carried my wife’s body back with me, unwilling to part with it yet, although watching her decompose was like watching her die all over again.  I killed a traveling merchant, took his cart and ox, and returned to Kirkwall, where I sent word to Orsino about what had happened.  Part of me wanted to blame him, for not getting her phylactery back.  I collected it after the fire had died down, of course.  I wasn’t going to bring her back, only to have them track us all over again.”

 

The Tale of Orsino, Chapter Six: The Pieces

Frenzy, true to her word, began teaching him more about necromancy.  She took over the body of the merchant I’d killed on the road, as the templar’s started falling apart.  She even offered to possess Ivy, to sustain her form for longer, but Quentin couldn’t bear the thought of a demon wearing his beloved wife.  He communicated regularly with Orsino, who expressed his own regret at his failings that night.  The new Knight-Commander, it seemed, was quite the zealot, and believed that the mages were being given too much freedom.  He told Orsino of his experiments, and received suggestions and reading materials in return.

He practiced on animals, and the dead templar.  He was improving, but it wasn’t fast enough, and after a time, Quentin had to accept that Ivy’s once beautiful flesh was just too far gone to use.  Frenzy assured him that it wasn’t necessary.  Her spirit was all that mattered, even if her features were different.  Quentin again thought of joining his beloved in death, this time going so far as to purchase poison from an elf in Lowtown, but when the time came, the spark of hope won out again.   _ I can still hold her in my arms again.  The demon says she will be whole. _

The next test subject literally fell on his doorstep, a victim of a bandit attack in the night, left to die on the foundry steps.  Bandit activity was rare in this part of town, but he wasn’t going to question his good fortune, and quickly dragged the hapless victim inside.  He followed some of the suggestions from Osino, but he wasn’t able to get that one to work either.  He dumped the body over the edge of the raised walkway near his home and heard the splash as the watery depths of the bay accepted its prize.

He grew frustrated as time went on, the longer he went without his beloved.  Frenzy’s body was deteriorating again, and she whispered to him that she would need a new body if he wanted her to keep helping him.  

He couldn’t give up now, although it meant killing again.  He’d done it before, with templars, and the merchant. It got easier, the killing, especially with new ships bringing refugees every day now.  There were so many without names or faces.  So many Traevors that would not be missed.  Frenzy especially liked it when he chose women, as she preferred a feminine form to inhabit.

He experimented more with what animals he could find, mostly rats, and learned that the fresher the kill was, the more chance he had of it working.  He arranged his workshop to slaughter the animals there, and hopefully soon, a new vessel for Ivy.  He tried combining the flesh of different animals, as he had seen suggested in one of the texts, sewing the tail of one rat onto another before attempting reanimation.  He breathed a sigh of relief when it rose.  He was getting better at this, with the animals, at least.  His procedures on humanoid creatures were still resulting in failure, despite Frenzy’s encouragement.

One morning, he found himself in the Lowtown Market.  He wanted to try something he had read in one of Orsino’s books, but wasn’t finding some of the components he needed.  Growing frustrated with the limited selection, he had two choices:  shop in Hightown, where he was likely to find what he needed, but would pay a little extra for it, or go to Darktown, where he was likely to be cheated in other ways.  He’d not been to Hightown lately, and decided it was a nice adventure, a wanted apostate flaunting his long bout of freedom in the Chantry’s face.

The shops in Hightown always had the most fascinating inventory, and there was this one fellow, Hubert, who sold all sorts of things, including a few mage goods.  How he came by his random selection was none of Quentin’s business; he was just happy that it existed, although he doubted the merchant even knew what it was that he sold.  Quentin made his purchases quickly, and headed back toward the stairs leading back to Lowtown.  

The quickest path took him by the Blooming Rose.  Quentin normally didn’t have enough coin to pay for the women who worked there, and knew Ivy would be angry with him once she got back if she learned he sought comfort with another woman.  Still, it was nice to watch some of the women milling about, tempting customers to enter.

He watched for a time from the shadows, then pushed away from the shadowed wall, just as the door opened again.  But this was no whore that exited.  She was pretty - not as pretty as Ivy, of course - and she walked with the gait of a woman who had just enjoyed herself very much inside the house of ill repute.  Her expensive clothing marked her as either minor nobility, or a wealthy merchant.  He started to turn away to head down the stairs, but there was something about her.  She...reminded him a little of Ivy.  He studied her for a moment, but couldn’t pinpoint what is was.

_ I want to approach her, but how to get the attention of a woman like that? _  He looked down at the things he was carrying.  One of the more common ingredients were white lilies.  Not the most romantic of flowers, he supposed, but they’d have to do.   _ I can always give her to Frenzy if this doesn’t work out,  _ he reassured himself.

“My dear lady, if I may,” he said, and pushed on, without letting her speak, “I was struck by your beauty, and the thought plagued me, why should a beautiful woman such as this pay good coin, when she could so easily find a willing partner to serve her pleasures?” he asked.

She frowned.  “My  _ pleasures _ are my own concern.  Good day,” she replied with finality.

“You mistake me, my lady. My words were not meant as criticism, but admiration.  Your  _ appetites _ must be as...specific as my own.”  He extended one of the lilies to her, cupping the blossom in his hand, with the stem between his fingers.  “Perhaps you would allow me to discuss it with you further?”  He smiled at her, running his thumb over the outside edge of the lily in a gentle, suggestive caress.

She looked flustered, but didn’t run away, and when she accepted his flower, Quentin knew he had her.

They met a few times, and finally the woman, Ninette he learned was her name, came willingly to his home.  Their previous encounters had been in public, with food or shopping, each ending with a chaste kiss - innocent enough.  But now that she agreed to come here, he was nervous; he knew what she expected.  The only woman he had ever been with was Ivy.  And yet here was Ninette, his new Ivy, and he found he did very much want to bury himself inside her.

He kissed her, backing her against the closed door to the workshop.  The closeness of the chamber where he did his experiments, the thrill of knowing he could be caught, only intensified his pleasure.  He was rough with her, grabbing at her buttocks, his fingernails digging into her tender flesh as he pulled her firmly against him.  She moaned in pleasure.  And it wasn’t  _ Ivy’s  _ moan.  The difference made him pause, but, determined to see this through, he tried again.

“Quentin, yes,” Ninette sighed as he bit her shoulder.

He stopped.  “Shut your mouth” he commanded, gritting the words out through his teeth.

She looked up at him, confused.  “What?”

He scowled.  “I just like it when you’re quiet,” he said, trying to cover his blunder.  He led her into the bedroom, a few small candles casting the room in a gentle light.   _ I wanted this to be special. _  He tried kissing her again, pushing her down in front of him on the bed, tearing at her clothing.  He exposed her chest...and she had a tiny mole, just on the side of her left breast.

“No, no, this is all wrong,” he said, shaking his head angrily.

“Quentin?” Ninette asked quietly.  “Are you okay?”

“I...I need a minute,” he said, excusing himself and stepping out into the hallway.  Frenzy was there, of course, watching from the hallway.

“Is that one for me?” she whispered, stepping in close.  “Ugh, you smell of her,” she added, wrinkling her nose in disgust.  “Unless...unless you’re trying to give me her memories of your kisses?  That would be interesting, dearest.”

“No, I...I thought she was like Ivy, but she’s not,” he admitted, feeling ashamed of himself for being so foolish.

“Then give her to me if you don’t want her,” Frenzy said again.

“No,” he said automatically, and was surprised to hear the words leave his mouth.  He was possessive over Ninette?   _ No, that’s not it,  _ he realized.   _ I don’t want to lose that part of Ivy I felt with her. _

“Here,” Frenzy insisted, handing him a knife.  “Decide which blade you want to stick her with, this one or the one in your trousers _ ,  _ and get on with it already.”

He frowned at her, and went back to the door, opening it.  Ninette sat on the bed, holding the torn edges of her blouse together to cover her nudity.

“Should I go?” she asked.

“No, I’m good,” he said, his voice calm.  “Come here, sweetness,” he told her pointing to the floor in front of him, indicating what he wanted.  

She grinned, and moved to kneel at his feet.  “Whatever you say.”  She started fumbling at his trousers, and Quentin found himself feeling more and more certain of his choice.  Raising the dagger, he plunged it into her back, withdrawing it to stab her again, and again.  Her hands grasped at his shirt, and it was then the he realized...it was her  _ hands _ that reminded him of Ivy all along.

This time the reanimation worked much better than the time before; she was fresh, and she seemed more like the woman she had been before death.  Her hands were beautiful, and Quentin put the ring he had given Ivy on her finger, removing the old one she had been wearing.   _ The bitch was married, and going to a place like that, _ he thought, shaking his head _.   _ Frenzy approved of what he had done, of course.  But looking at his new creation, it still wasn’t quite right.

Remembering the experiment with the rats, he sought out more pieces that were hers, like Ninette’s hands.  He found more women that were easily lured by the thought that someone would love them.  And he did love them, just not as themselves.  Ivy was all that mattered, all that had ever mattered, and he was able to put her back together, one piece at a time, and make her whole again.  He was close, so close...it had taken time to find them all, yes, and that damned Hawke nearly caught him one night...but, as fate would have it, that’s what finally led him to the last missing piece.

Her name was Leandra Hawke, not that he cared.  She’d be Ivy, just like the others when he was done.  She was just as easy to approach, as well.  He had thought she might be more of a challenge, living in that shining estate in Hightown.  But no, all women like her were the same:  lonely, in need of romance, and they fell at his feet with a few pretty words.

Her face was exquisite, just like his beloved’s, like she might have looked after a few more years, and seeing it with the gag in her mouth in the main room of his workshop was getting him excited.  He couldn’t wait to summon Ivy’s spirit, to kiss her lips and feel her kissing him back, thanking him for saving her.

“Just a bit longer, Ivy, we’re nearly ready.”

Leandra shouted something against the gag, but he wasn’t interested in her words.  He’d heard them before.  “Let me go, you monster”, she would say, or perhaps “I’m not Ivy”.  But he couldn’t, and she would be, eventually, Ivy - part of his masterpiece.  He reached out to caress her cheek, ignoring the way she glared at him and tried to pull away from his touch.  His memory of Ivy clinging to him, their passionate lovemaking once they’d escaped Kirkwall, increased his anticipation.  But, he needed to be patient; he couldn’t rush this.  Not this time.

Frenzy sat on the table, her legs swinging.  He’d chosen a small young elf for her vessel this time, and she liked it a lot, said the height reminded her more of her natural form.  She seemed to enjoy when he killed the others, even the ones that were not for her.  She said over and over, “love is pain”.  He came to realize she was enjoying their  _ pain.   _ But she seemed to accept this as payment, and made fewer demands of his memories, which made things easier for him.  She now observed his ritual, helping him make corrections as he went.

Ending this human woman’s life was nothing to him; he’d grown numb to it, because he knew it was necessary.  Ivy’s spirit couldn’t inhabit a vessel if it was already occupied, so he had to free them.  He’d already paid so much to have her back already, what was one more?  He raised his knife to her throat, targeting a spot just above the collarbone, so as not to mar her perfect skin, and went to work.

 

In the Farmhouse:

“Me?  I have had many names.  The one they threw about was ‘The Butcher of Lowtown.’  A  _ butcher _ ,” he scoffed.  “I was an artist!  A man so in love that he would do anything for his wife, anything…it only proved their ignorance.

“I was so proud of what I had accomplished.  I reanimated her, but I hadn’t summoned the spirit yet.  I wanted to show Orsino what I had done.  Yes, here’s the part where we get back to my  _ friend _ .”

 

The Tale of Orsino, Chapter Seven:  Ramifications

Quentin was ecstatic when Orsino agreed to again meet him in the tunnels.  He hadn’t seen his friend in person in years, their communication completed in correspondence, traded ideas, theories, books.  He knew his friend would be just as excited about the results of his work as he was.

His creation was compliant, as the small spirits that currently sustained her form did not have much in the way of independent thought.  It would be better once she was truly Ivy, but it was nice to see her again.  He washed her and clothed her, savoring the image of the pretty new dress sliding over her skin.  

“You’re so beautiful, my love,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.  “But we mustn’t keep Orsino waiting.”  He grabbed the cloak, similar to the one he had brought her in the tunnels on the night of the escape, and fastened it around her.  “There,” he said.  “Now you won’t catch chill.”

They walked together in the light of twilight.  He held her hand, so familiar to him, and quickly traveled through Darktown.  Opening the hatch, he helped her descend the ladder, and went down after her, closing the hatch behind him.

Orsino was already waiting.  He looked older, his hair having grayed.  But, he supposed it had been years since he last saw him.  He was dressed in his usual Circle robes, with a few more adornments now that his friend was First Enchanter.

“Orsino, my friend, I am glad you agreed to meet.”

“As am I, Quentin.  It has been a long time.  But I was under the impression that we were meeting alone,” he commented, looking at the cloaked figure standing next to him.

Quentin smiled.  “I thought after all of our discussions, you would want to witness my achievement.”

“Achievement?  Quentin...our discussions were academic.  Do you mean to tell me that you’ve really managed it?  A full reanimation from pieces?” he asked, intellectual curiosity causing his breath to quicken.  “No, that’s impossible.”

“Come here, my dear,” Quentin called to her, and she walked forward awkwardly.  Orsino frowned, but said nothing.  Quentin reached up to pull down the hood of her cloak.

Orsino gasped.  “Ivy!” he exclaimed, realization dawning on him.  “Quentin what have you done?”  His curiosity was now replaced with horror and disgust.

“I brought her back.  Well, her form at least.  It took me a while to find the missing pieces, but…”

“This is madness, Quentin.  You must release whatever spirit is possessing her and let these women rest in peace.  That is an unnatural creature, not your wife.”

“Not yet, but when we summon her spirit, it will be.”

“We?  There’s no way I’m helping you with this,” Orsino swore, backing away and shaking his head.

“Not you, Orsino.  I have been getting advice from a spirit.”

“Demons?  That’s your solution?  Ivy is gone, Quentin; a demon can’t change that.  Her spirit is with the Maker now.”

“ _ No it isn’t!”   _ Quentin shouted.  He’d worked so hard for this moment, but the one person who should have understand what he was trying to do, was telling him he thought he was wrong.

“The demon is tricking you - you’re being a fool,” Orsino spat out.  

“ _ Me?!”   _ Quentin cried, but stopped himself.  He took a deep breath, and stepped closer to his friend.  “You’re right.  I think I’ve made a mistake.  Help me…” 

Orsino’s gaze softened.  “Just let them go, Quentin,” he said.

Quentin nodded.  “I will…” another step closer.

Orsino put a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Ivy.”

“No, old friend,” Quentin answered, slamming his hidden blade deep into the older man’s chest.  “I’m sorry.”  

Surprise and agony crossed the elf’s face, and he gave a small groan of pain.  Quentin let go, and watched as he crumpled into a heap on the floor of the cavern.  Looking down at the knife, he questioned this decision, but Orsino couldn’t be allowed to turn him in.

Frenzy stepped out from the shadows and was at the First Enchanter’s side in an instant.  “I can help you stop this monster,” she promised, crouching next to him, her words thick like honey.  “I can help you save  _ them all _ .”

“What are you doing?!” Quentin cried.  “You’re supposed to be helping me!”  The spirit’s betrayal hurt less than the thought of not being able to summon Ivy.

“I’m getting what I want of course, what you denied me.  You knew my nature from the first, don’t pretend innocence now.  You have nothing left to offer me.”  She stroked the dying mage’s hair, looking lovingly down into his eyes.  The pool of blood was growing, and Quentin knew that Orsino did not have much longer to live.

Quentin shook his head.   _ I’ve fallen so far that I have nothing left to even offer a demon?   _ “Take me, then.  Possess me.  Just help me save her.”

“Once you had enough love and pain to sustain me, but I’ve taken so much from you already, so many memories.  Your capacity to feel, to love...what makes you  _ human _ is gone.  Still, to possess a mage is a powerful offer.”  She leaned down to whisper in Orsino’s ear.  “Care to make me a counteroffer, my sweet?  Accept me, Orsino, and I will see to it that the mages you love so much are freed.”

“No, please…” Quentin begged, sinking to his knees, weeping.

Barely a whisper, the word “yes” sounded loud in his ears, and Quentin knew he had lost.  Frenzy’s elven form dropped lifeless again to the earthen floor, and Orsino sat up, his wound already healing.  When he spoke, Orsino’s intonations were familiar, but the words were all Frenzy’s.  

“Ah, that’s better,” she said, taking a deep breath.  She examined her new hands.  “He has a lot of power. I’m going to like this form.  A female would have been preferable, but a live mage is so much better than a dead woman.”

Quentin’s grief hit him anew.   _ Ivy is gone?  There’s no bringing her back?   _ He looked at the woman he had created next to him, her blank eyes staring at him with obedience.  He wrapped his arms around her and sobbed.

“Hmm, such lovely pain.  Perhaps you  _ do _ yet have something of value,” Frenzy said, then turned to the side.  She furtively whispered, “Yes, yes, Orsino, I will honor our bargain.  In time.”

Returning her gaze to Quentin, she stepped closer, her feminine gait giving away that she was not the mage she appeared to be.  “Just because I couldn’t take you up on your delicious offer doesn’t mean our arrangement has to end, dearest.  I have friends who would likely be willing to help you.  I can call them here...for a price.”

“Name it, anything to help me bring her back.”

“I want the memory of your first kiss.  The most special one.  Give it to me,” Frenzy demanded.

Quentin felt sickened by his own decision, but nodded nevertheless.  They could make more memories when he had her back.  “Take it, just help me.”

A smile unlike any Orsino had ever made curled up the corners of his mouth.  “Very well, Quentin.  Come to me, and it will be done.”

 

In the Farmhouse:

“I know, alright!” the man said, slamming his palms down flat on the table.  His scowling expression softened into sadness.  “I should never have accepted her deal...but it helped.  Helped me forget.  Helped me let go of her, at least a little.”

 

The Tale of Orsino, Chapter Eight: Emptiness

Orsino went back to the Circle at the Gallows, with none the wiser that their First Enchanter had become an abomination.  Frenzy was a powerful demon, and made good on her word to summon friends to help Quentin.  There were several now, each possessing a corpse of someone he had murdered, asking for more and more of him, but he felt no remorse.   _ Let Orsino have Frenzy,  _ he thought.   _ As long as I get what I want, that’s all that matters. _

At least until Hawke found him, that is.  The stories would later tell of Hawke’s heroic search for his mother, and infiltrating the lair of the evil blood mage who had kidnapped her, slaughtering the mage and ending his reign of terror.  But Quentin didn’t die that day - had, in fact, prepared for such an event, creating a new specimen that was close enough to his own looks to fool them.  At the last minute, a desire demon filled the reanimated double and faced them in his stead, while Quentin himself slipped off into the night.  Demons were easy to come by; there were always more waiting to be summoned.

He knew there was some reason he should feel guilty that he left his creation behind, but he couldn’t seem to remember what it was.  There was something tickling at the back of his memory, but he was finding a lot of things hard to remember lately.  

His life continued, as did the restlessness, the feeling that there was something he should be doing, but he couldn’t seem to recall what.  Each day blended into the next, getting more and more blurry with time.

He went out a lot at night, and this night was no exception.  He especially liked it when the skies were clear and the moon lit the narrow streets of Lowtown.  When it was all still, and dark, and he was away from the demons, sometimes he could almost remember.  Especially when he held the vial he kept in his pocket.  It was a phylactery...there had been a woman.  He didn’t know what she looked like, but she had been important.  Why?  

He looked down at his hands and was shocked to see blood.   _ What?  When was I injured? _  His tunic and trousers were also flecked with the dark stains, but he could find no source of the blood.  The phylactery was sealed, it had not come from there.  “Maker’s Breath,” he whispered.  Glancing around him, he was alone on the street, no sign of anyone.   _ What have I done? _

Mages are dangerous, he remembered what the Chantry said about them.   _ There’s a Circle nearby, right?  I should turn myself in, maybe they can help me. _  His course set, he walked toward the docks, unsure of how he knew how to get to the Circle.  Of course, no ferries ran to the Gallows in the middle of the night, and he was forced to turn back.  He washed in the water splashing up on the loading dock, before retracing his steps through the darkened city.

But when he looked at the door to his home, he found himself not wanting to open it.  He shook his head, trying to clear it, and reached again for the doorknob, but hesitated once more.  Why did he not want to go inside?  What was inside that he didn’t want to face?  He forced his hand on the knob again, and turned it.

The smell was immediate.  Death.  Quentin gasped at the corpses lying around his home in various states of decay.   _ Who did this?  But...some of these aren’t fresh...oh Maker, the blood, _ he thought.  He fled, running through the twisting streets, unable to shake what he had just seen, and finally, returned to the docks.  He couldn’t get to the Gallows yet, but there was no way he was going back to that place, not ever.  He’d wait, and find a templar, or take the first ferry.

He found a hidden alcove where he could watch the docks, and sat huddled in the shadows.   _ I did that, killed those people...I’m a monster, _ he thought.  Something hit his hand, and he looked down.  It was his own teardrop, something he hadn’t seen in months, but his vision flashed back to seeing his hands covered in someone else’s blood.  His stomach heaved, and he emptied it’s contents onto the paving stones.  He retched until he had nothing left.  

“Help me,” he pleaded to no one.

It felt like an eternity before the sky lightened, and people returned to the docks.  He was first to board the ferry, and took up a spot near the railing.   _ Maybe they can make me Tranquil.  At least then I won’t hurt anybody else. _  Once away from the dock, and sailing the choppy waves of the bay, a group passed behind him, and he realized he recognized one of them.   _ Hawke!    _ He immediately pulled up his hood, although for the life of him, why he should do so escaped him.   _ Hawke is a hero, a Champion, why am I hiding from him? _  But the urge was still there.  

He wished he had listened to his urge last night, and not gone back into that place.   _ How long has it been since I could remember anything?  No more deals with demons.   _ He peeked at Hawke, and saw him conversing with some of his friends.  One he recognized as Anders, one of the mages from the underground.  The other two he did not know: a woman in shining plate armor, and an archer with a white breastplate.   _ Why would Anders, an advocate for mage rights, be headed toward the Gallows?   _ He tried to listen in to their conversation, but they were too far away, and the roar of the waves overpowered the sounds of their voices.

Quentin sighed, and guessed it didn’t matter.  He’d be Tranquil soon, and  _ nothing _ would matter anymore.   _ I wonder if it will help me forget what I saw back there, what I...did.   _ The journey was surprisingly brief.  He allowed the others to disembark before leaving the ship himself, as to avoid notice by Hawke and his companions.  

The stone walkways and pillars were pretty, he supposed, but his mission was clear:  find someone and turn himself in.  But there were no templars here at the docks; he’d have to go further inside.

He had reached a wide set of steps up to the shopping area when the ground shook under his feet, causing him to stumble.  A red light caught his attention and he looked back at the city of Kirkwall.  Twin beams of destructive magic shot up into the sky, and fires were igniting from falling debris.   _ What is that? _    He wondered.   _ That looks to be near the Chantry.  Did I have something to do with that too? _    He looked down at his hands, forever stained with the blood of countless lives.

_ It changes nothing; I need to be stopped.    _ Quentin walked forward into the courtyard, but the people were all in a panic, mages and templars both running in the chaos.  He tried to catch one of the passing templars, but was brushed off.  He supposed he didn’t look much like a mage - wasn’t even carrying a staff.

He needed the Knight-Commander, or maybe the First Enchanter.   _ Wait...Orsino.  I know the First Enchanter.  He’ll help. _  Quentin continued past the abandoned stalls, but saw something he hadn’t expected.  

Anders had been slain, his body lying next to one of the tables.   _ I know I didn’t do this one, right? _  He backed away, right into someone.  Both thrown off balance, they fell together, limbs tangled in one another’s.  He rolled away from them, getting back up and reached his hand out to help them up, when his heart felt like it quit beating in his chest.

A face flashed before his eyes, a beauty, with fair skin and dark hair.  This girl, this mage, looked nearly identical to the way  _ she _ had.  But, before he could remember  _ who _ she reminded him of, the vision was gone.

“Are you okay?” he asked the dark-haired girl.

“No. Anders is dead, and I have to get inside, they’re calling for the Rite of Annulment!” she cried, taking his hand and getting to her feet, preparing to run, but stopped and looked back at him.  “You’d better get out of here.  There will be fighting soon,” she explained before heading underneath a portcullis that lead to a higher section above.

“I’m coming with you,” Quentin stated.  He didn’t want to let her get away, this person who was helping him remember.  He wanted to remember.  He followed her up the stairs, and the grate closed tight behind them.

She stared at him.  “Why would you do that?  Come in here, I mean.  You just condemned yourself to death with the mages.”

“I’m an apostate,” he answered, looking away.  “I want to help.”

She exhaled, and the corners of her lips tilted upwards, in a way that was so familiar.  But it felt like a memory from long ago; it couldn’t be this girl.

“I’m Bethany,” she said, gesturing with her hand for him to follow.

“Quentin,” he replied, and her eyes flew open in fear.

She mouthed the word “No” before bolting, running from him as fast as she could.  In his confusion, he let her, standing there as she ran away.   _ What did I do to put that kind of fear in her eyes?  Please, help me remember. _  He ran after her, toward the upper landing.  

She stood behind a group of mages, including a very familiar face.

Orsino’s face smiled in an oddly feminine fashion, and Quentin was struck again with memories.  “I wondered if I would see you again.  My, you’re less than nothing now, just an empty shell.  They’ve taken everything, haven’t they?”

Quentin’s brow wrinkled in confusion.  “How do you know about them?  Damn it, there’s something I should remember, but I can’t…”

“I don’t have time for this; some idiot started a war with the templars,” Orsino said.  “You have nothing left to offer, anyway.”

The words struck a chord in him... _ nothing left to offer _ .  Rage filled him, and he ran toward the First Enchanter, ducking spells as the others attempted to stop him.  Removing the small knife from its sheath, he made a small cut, using the power to create a barrier.

“Blood magic,” one of the mages whispered in horror, recoiling.  A couple of spells bounced off his shield, harmless, then there were no more.  He saw the other mages flee into the doors surrounding the courtyard, including the beautiful Bethany.  But he couldn’t be distracted; he needed to finish this.

He continued on and reached the First Enchanter.  He made a move to stab him with the knife, but a hand reached out to stop him.  Orsino’s face showed strain, sweat beading on the surface of his skin.

“Not now, damn you.  Stop fighting me!” he whispered, and Quentin was certain the words were not meant for him.

“Frenzy,” he said, the memory of his old friend returning.  

“Yes,” she said, the grin returning, but it quickly disappeared, and the frown returned.  “Let me end him, and I will give you what you want,” she said, again turning her head to the side and speaking as if to someone else.

Quentin took advantage of her moment of distraction and used his off-hand to punch the side of her jaw.  She reeled, letting go of the arm with the knife.  He barrelled toward the elf, knocking over his form, and placed the knife at his throat.

“I guess you need a reminder of what pain feels like,” she said, gritting her teeth, pushing away the wrist holding the knife.

Suddenly, there was no fight, no blade, no demons.  Only  _ her _ .  The smell of autumn leaves as they stood in the courtyard of the Starkhaven Circle, just the two of them, her tinkling laughter, his hands in her hair, sliding through the glossy strands as he nervously bent to kiss her her for the first time.  The way her breath mingled with his, and Maker, the taste of her lips, like strawberries.  How she timidly at first, then with more passion, kissed him back.  Her beauty, her innocence, her love for him... _ Ivy. _

Quentin backed away, a cry of anguish ripped from her throat, his knife clattering to the pavement.   _ Ivy.  Ivy, Ivy, Ivy...how could he have forgotten his true love?  Maker, the things he had done for her...Ivy. _  Quentin took a step backward, then other, shaking his head.

“I see you still have the capacity for pain after all.  You’re stronger than I thought,” Orisino said, then stopped again, tilting his head to the side.  “Stop fighting me, you foolish elven bastard!”

Orsino’s head snapped up, and he saw his friend shining through his own eyes again.  “Not this time, bitch.  Quentin...you have to kill me.  I have her restrained.  Please, old friend.”

Quentin remembered the sick feeling when he’d discovered the bodies. He’d killed before; he could do it again, right?  He eyed the knife, and allowed his barrier to drop.  Part of him wanted to, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to help his friend, or if he just wanted to kill.  He took a step forward, reached for the knife, but felt the familiar sting of spirit magic, and found himself immobilized by an invisible cage.

He moved his eyes and saw her: the girl, Bethany, who looked so much like Ivy had when they first fell in love.  Oh, how he missed her.

“I’m not going to let you hurt the First Enchanter,” she declared, and he was moved by her bravery.

“Bethany, no, you don’t know what you’re doing.  I-” Orsino said, his words cut off in a choking gasp, again fighting with the demon for control over their form.

Her eyes flicked from Orsino to Quentin, and back, hesitating, but Orsino gave no further words of clarity.  Movements jerky, Orsino reached for the knife, and managed to make a fist around it,  He quickly moved his hand away, slicing the flesh underneath.  

Orsino’s form burst outward in a dramatic display of blood magic.  Quentin’s own work was subtle, meticulous, but this wasn’t like that; it was impressive on a grand scale.  His flesh bubbled outward into something entirely different.  

Bethany’s distraction at the scene ended her spell, and Quentin slumped to the ground.

“Run!” he warned her.  “It’s too late for Orsino.”

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, he was seeing Ivy all over again, her fear when she’d fled the Gallows, running into his arms.  When Bethany ran back inside the building and barred the door behind her, he was relieved, but also felt that loss all over again, the fear, the desperation.  He wanted to go to her, to hold her, but all too soon, she was gone.

Facing the hideous amalgamation that his friend Orsino had become, he knew someone had to kill it.  He realized that had probably been Orsino’s intention all along: to force someone into killing him, ending both his life and the demon’s.

Quentin no longer had the knife, and his wound had stopped bleeding.  But he had one final source of blood.  He pulled the vial from his pocket and said a small prayer to the Maker for help.  

He pulled the blood from his beloved’s phylactery, the magic causing it to flow again, lighting the lyrium within with a bright light.   _ Ivy’s spirit _ , he thought.   _ Help me, my love. _

_ Chains _ .   _ Bind him. _  He unleashed the magic, which propelled toward the monster.  Looping one end around an appendage, he drove the firey red spear tip down into the ground.  Then again, catching another, and another, until the beast could no longer move.

He walked forward, looking for any signs that this had once been his friend, but found none in the grotesque form of twisted limbs and infant-like heads.  

“I release you,” he whispered, driving a final lance through its heart.  It thrashed and wailed, and then was still.

He sighed, recalling the blood from the spears back into the vial, and capped it.   _ Thank you, Ivy.  You did well. _

He walked away without a glance backwards, toward where he knew the hidden passage started that led to the underground caves, away from the Circle and its promise of safety, away from Kirkwall.

 

In the Farmhouse:

“But I could never escape the memories,” the man explained.  “With the demon dead, they found me, one after the other, driving me into despair, missing her, needing her.  I went back, of course - I couldn’t help myself - looking for the mage girl, Bethany, but she was gone from that place, rescued by her brother, the Champion.”

“So now you know the true fate that befell Orsino.  But what is it that makes someone human, what makes them more?  Is it the ability to love?  Overcoming ourselves?  Or just the right set of circumstances that gives us the opportunity to be the hero of the story?”

The man glared at the interviewer.  “What, you don’t believe that’s the way it went, do you?” he questioned.  “I bet you’d rather buy into the dwarf’s pretty version that paints the Champion as the hero.  Why did I even agree to this, anyway?  This whole time, you’ve just sat there, judging me.”  He walked to the end of the table, rested one hand on its surface and leaned in close to the interviewer. 

“You’re just like all the others, Traevor.”  Quentin clawed for the man’s throat, but his hands found only the wood backing of the chair.  Confused, he pulled back, and examined his hands.  When he glanced back, the man wasn’t there.  He growled in frustration, looking around the room for where he had gone.  

His eyes took in the interior of the farmhouse: the dusty window with a broken pane, the stack of unwashed teacups, the bucket heaping with something foul.   _ What was I doing again?  No matter, _ he thought, walking toward the backroom.  He admired his latest creation.  The face still wasn’t right, but he knew where to find it.

“Be patient Ivy; I’ll track her down for us.”  His hand reached into his pocket, stroking the curves of her phylactery.  “Soon,” he promised.


End file.
